


constellations

by Fredwrites



Series: reasons wretched and divine [3]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: John is alive, M/M, Memory Loss, More tags to be added, Recovery, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fredwrites/pseuds/Fredwrites
Summary: Eventually the caterpillars would form cocoons around themselves and curl up on a twig. Their bodies would calcify and turn dull until something even more wonderful and magnificent was ready to emerge. This was John’s favourite part. Their shiny, silky wings. The moment they took off, diving into the blue expanse of the sky. The knowledge that something so brilliant and free could come from something so unassuming.When John is lost as he is now, in nothing, in half-formed sleep, he imagines that this warm darkness is what a cocoon feels like. He senses somewhere in the void that it is time to hatch. Being a lover of punctuality, he does so.He regrets it immediately.***John wakes up in a house that isn't home and meets a dwarf he doesn't know, but apparently should. Thus begins his reluctant journey to finding out who he was and is. Merle figures that happy endings aren't as easy to come by as the stories make them out to be.





	1. hatch

**Author's Note:**

> really excited to start this fic!!! its gonna be a multi chapter. im not sure how many, still figuring it out. originally i wasnt going to take the whole memory loss route but it came to me in a flash of sleep deprived delirium so like. guess we're doing this now! i decided to make the first chapter short and post it now so no one thought id died or smth. updates might be kind of slow bc school 
> 
> also, i don't do lyric based fics but i did name this one after the song constellations by the oh hellos. its a super great song and feels really approprite for this fic
> 
> anyways thank u guys sm for reading!

When John was a child, as hard as that is for him to recall now, he used to venture into his back garden and observe the creatures with an inquisitive eye. He let ants and beetles crawl over his palms; he asked his parents to buy him one of those plastic boxes you could house worms in (he didn’t like the sensation of them against his skin, so it was for viewing purposes only.) Most of all, his favourite thing to do was to collect caterpillars. He would snatch them off of the leaves, observing their fat little bodies with fascination. He delighted in the way they crawled and moved and explored their new, glass jar surrounding. 

Eventually the caterpillars would form cocoons around themselves and curl up on a twig. Their bodies would calcify and turn dull until something even more wonderful and magnificent was ready to emerge. This was John’s favourite part. Their shiny, silky wings. The moment they took off, diving into the blue expanse of the sky. The knowledge that something so brilliant and free could come from something so unassuming. 

When John is lost as he is now, in nothing, in half-formed sleep, he imagines that this warm darkness is what a cocoon feels like. He senses somewhere in the void that it is time to hatch. Being a lover of punctuality, he does so. 

He regrets it immediately.

It’s pain. Oh, Gods, it is pain- it is blinding light the glare of a thousand suns strong, tearing through the membrane of blackness he has been cradled in for so long; it is the flood of magma and ice on his skin, drowning in the first gasping breath he takes when he is finally awake. The pain in his lungs is indescribable. He is sure it will ruin him from the inside out like a plague, like a curse. Gods, just let him die, again, just let him- 

And, finally, his vision clears. He realises that the fogginess of his eyes isn’t just them adjusting to the vibrancy of the new world he has been born into but that he’s crying. He blinks the tears away to find that he is lying in a bed. A bed with a patchwork blanket that someone sewed by hand. He lifts his hands to his face tentatively and touches it. Good Gods. Holy shit, in fact. He has a real  _ face  _ again. His eyes sting afresh. 

He lifts his head to the rest of the room. Small, cozy, cramped. A warm, earthy orange colour. The walls are lined with shelves that are lined with books. There’s a single window to the right of him and through its eye he can see a pale grey sky, a lightless sun and the edge of an evergreen bush. He finally allows his vision to light on a rocking chair right at his bedside. 

Slumped on it is a stout figure. He has grey hair tinged greenish-pinkish-blue with the memory of a plethora of dyes and it’s all piled up in a bedraggled bun. A pair of glasses are sliding down his nose because he’s dozing, arms folded across his floral beach shirt. He’s got a terrible fashion sense- all of the colours clash. He’s wearing socks with sandals, for fuck’s sake. John could almost scoff, if he didn’t feel so compelled to reach out to him. 

He is disturbed from this compulsion by a new sensation in his chest, which rapidly spreads to his throat and mouth like a swarm of ants. John begins to cough, first soft and breathy and then louder, his throat burning with the force of each exhalation. He doubles over at the waist, one hand on his chest and the other attempting to stifle the noise. Through the pain he notices he is wearing soft flannel pyjamas that are too wide for him but not at all long enough.

This wakes the dwarf, whose eyes shoot open. He unfolds like a map, spilling out of the chair and catching himself on the edge of the bed. His eyes are owlish behind his glasses, shiny and brown, and he’s regarding John with a look of awed, relieved wonder. How John can deduce this, especially through the coughs wracking his body, he doesn’t know but it comes easy as breathing.  _ Easier  _ than breathing, actually. 

“Water,” the dwarf says, suddenly, broken from his reverie. “Ah, shit! Just- just hold on a second, John, I’ll be back right away-” He stumbles out of the room, unsteady on his be-sandled feet. John hears the sound of running water, distantly, although sound is difficult to cope with, with the throbbing that has conjured in his skull. He wants to raise a hand to it but both are preoccupied. 

John can’t steady himself for long enough to take the glass so the dwarf has to prise his hand- gently, carefully- away from John’s mouth. He places a hand under the human’s chin and lets him drink, brow furrowed in concentration and- if John isn’t imagining it- concern. 

“There. That’s it,” he says, satisfaction removing the frown from his face as John’s shoulder’s slump and the coughing subsides to a wheezing current. The human relaxes against the small mountain of pillows he was propped up on before, closing his eyes to the room. Nothing will ever be as dark as it was before, and he is acutely aware of fabric on his skin, of the pounding of his own heart in his chest.

_ I can never go back to that,  _ he realises. And just what was  _ that _ ?

The dwarf sets down the glass on a dresser, still standing at the bedside. He’s looking at John with that same blur of emotions. His hands are linked, the knuckles burning white. 

John clears his throat. What to begin with? Maybe he should just start out simply for once. 

“Thank you,” he says, and is surprised by the grating quality of his voice. He puts a hand to his throat. The dwarf laughs roughly, sounding equally vocally muddy. John notices the purplish-grey rings around his eyes, the dishevelled state of his hair and beard. 

“Not exactly the honeyed tone you’re used to having, right?” he says, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks so- so- so  _ happy,  _ it’s almost too much for John to look at. “Ah, sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe not the nicest words to wake up to, you’ve been through…a lot! I’m just nervous, I…” There’s that ardent relief again, mingled with fear. “I’m just so glad you woke up, John.”

John tries to say something, but for once he’s at a loss for words. He clears his throat, again, as if that will encourage his vocal chords to think of something better. He finds himself laughing inexplicably, a mere chuckle in the heavy silence of the room. 

“I...If you don’t mind, I have a question.” 

The dwarf quirks an eyebrow, his smile quickly becoming bemused. “Why of course,” he returns. “That is a staple of our interactions.”

John smiles as pleasantly as he can, threading his fingers together. “Three questions, actually. One: how do you know my name?” The dwarf’s face falls, but before he can say anything John presses on, “Two: Who are you?” And the fear in his eyes is renewed, fuelled, but John has to finish this: “Three: Are you supposed to be my friend?” 

And the dwarf has no answers. 


	2. record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> john and merle talk for the first (or millionth) time

Here’s the list of things John knows about himself: 

One: his full name is John Hadar and he is fifty-three years old. He can’t remember much about his family- it has been decades since he was a part of it- but he thinks he had a relatively normal childhood. His parents’ faces are blurry when he tries to recall them but he gets the sense that they were more intent on training him than nurturing him. He excelled in school. People liked to listen to him speak in class. He had a wall full of certificates and awards in his bedroom. There wasn’t a party of his classmate’s that he wasn’t invited to. He was a good kid, he thinks. 

Two: he was a motivational speaker; a philosopher- maybe he still is. His name was well known; for his books, his speeches. It was printed on billboards and posters, advertising his face. If he thinks hard enough, he can remember some of the words and mouth them to himself, the ones he learnt off by heart to the point that they appeared in his dreams. There were the dinner parties and public events, toasting champagne with people in suits. The fit of his own suits, all variations of black and grey. He stayed at expensive hotels in empty rooms; the rush of the city beneath him. He recalls the seas of shadowed faces in the auditoriums, the glare of stage lights overhead. He heard the sound of his own voice, echoing back and back and back at him; the reply a roar of applause. 

Three: John’s vision cleared in the most terrible way and he began to fall. The colour drained out of the world. He looked into people’s eyes and saw nothing but glass marbles. He faltered at the dawn of a new presentation, out of words- the dryness of his mouth and sweat on his forehead a sickness decaying his innards. His agent reprimanded him, his advisors pushed and pulled. He remembers one long night that he didn’t sleep- and then the successive weeks of insomnia. He began writing in that time, all that dark time, the bags growing under his eyes. He flew through paper and ink until his fingers seized. The words marched out of him, led by their own independant force. He remembers looking up into the sky, braced against the frigidity of the air, hands balled into fists. How  _ vast _ and wide and open and endless everything was. He wanted to stare the Gods in their eyes and tell them- every single one- that they’d lied to him and everyone else they’d promised purpose to. But he couldn’t. Yet. He was too small. So then there was the speech.  _ That _ speech. 

Four: John remembers the roar of the wind. The grey featureless sky. The magnetic pulse that everything around him emitted. He remembers the way he felt nothing-  _ nothing-  _ going up on stage, none of the twinges of nervousness he’d felt in previous speeches. He arrived on the stage and the atmosphere of the crowds was palpable. He remembers opening his mouth to speak to the crowd, the way everyone seemed to inhale in unison. He began to speak. The words, they were- 

John does not remember the speech. He remembers- something. Something big and attractive as a void, something that makes him feel cold to try and conjure in his memory. He doesn’t want to. His brain has barred him from entry, or perhaps it just refuses to retrieve the next part of the puzzle.

He relays this all to the dwarf whose home he woke up in. He’s learnt that his name is Merle Highchurch. It fits him. He had looked up to John hopefully as he’d introduced himself, searching for anything in the human’s face. John had simply shrugged and thanked him for the help. 

They’re sitting at the table now as John speaks, Merle holding a recording device in one hand and stirring a cup of tea with the other. The dwarf loves the stuff, John has observed. There are shelves of it around the little kitchen, in decorated tins. There are plenty of plants too, soaking up the sun on the windowsills and countertops. The whole room is well-lived-in, full of little trinkets and a picture of a couple of children that John could only assume were the dwarf’s.

“And that’s it,” he concludes, hands folded around his own mug. “I currently remember no more and no less. Apologies.” 

Merle rubs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose. He clicks the off button on the recorder and sits up straighter, taking a swig from his cup. Then he smiles. 

“Don’t be sorry. We just...have work to do!” Merle hands John the recorder. “Step number one: I think it’ll be useful if you can keep track of your progress. So uh, think of this like a diary. Or a captain’s log, if that’s more your thing.” John chuckles mildly and the dwarf perks up. “Meanwhile, we can try and uh, get you back on your feet. The adjustment period of...ending up on a new plane is going to be lengthy.” 

John sighs. “I suppose I just can’t help but feel this is all a little…” he gestures aimlessly with his hands and laughs, humorless. “Bizarre? I mean, I’ve ended up in a completely different world to where I used to be, we supposedly  _ knew _ each other somehow and yet I can’t remember anything that happened to me, nor do I have any memory of you. I mean, it’s not that I don’t believe you but...well. I hope you can understand my reservations.” 

The dwarf’s face crumples slightly. John doesn’t exactly feel guilty but he doesn’t like seeing him upset. There’s something that feels distinctly uncomfortable about crushing his spirits. He shifts in his seat. “Yeah, ok, that’s fair. I come on a little strong, I guess.” Merle clicks his tongue against his teeth, frowning. “It’s all kinda difficult to explain- I mean, there’s just so much that happened and it’s not all pretty.”

“Well, I can take that.” 

“Ah, alright, I’ll tell you. But considering you can’t remember anything, you’re gonna have to, ah, suspend your disbelief for  _ just _ a second. And try not to freak out.”

John raises his eyebrows, leaning on an elbow. “I’m certain I’ve heard worse.” 

“You...used to be a world eating entity that almost destroyed reality as we know it, which included killing  _ me  _ multiple times because I was the ambassador of the crew trying to stop you from doing all that world-eating shit.” Merle pauses. “Also, we used to play chess.” 

John stares at Merle for what must be a minute. He’d always thought that the time spent on surprised pauses in books or TV seemed like an over exaggeration but now that he’s in that very position, he isn’t so sure. 

The human blinks. Then he laughs, this time with more enthusiasm, so hard in fact that he sheds a tear for the second time that day. This amount of crying is unusual. In fact, he wouldn’t cry for months back on his old plane. Merle watches him from across the table, perplexed. John finishes laughing, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and scooping hair back from his forehead. 

“Good Gods!” he says, recovering himself and patting his chest. “I didn’t take you for a joker when I first met you, Merle Highchurch, but I find myself taken aback. In the time leading up to this incident, I found myself losing faith in the world- perhaps this is just what I needed. Well, now I know what I have on my hands, I can prepare myself for the coming journey.” John grins, still reeling a little, but finding himself delighted. This could be fun. This could be very fun. He offers a hand over the table. “Whether we actually ever met or no, I think this could be the beginning of a very interesting relationship. Pleased to make your acquaintance- for the second time, or the first.” 

Merle stares at the hand for a moment, an unintelligible look crossing his face as he considers it. Then he looks up at John and the human sees something change in his eyes. The dwarf takes his hand and shakes it, his grip firmer than John had expected. “Nice to meet ya too, John,” he says. 

***

“Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” 

Merle is crouched to the ground, his back against a wall. He grips a handful of hair, trying not to lose his shit. He lifts his wooden hand level with his face and watches as a trail of moss spells out the just-about-readable message: “HOPE THINGS ARE OK OVER THERE AND JOHN ISN’T EVIL. CALL ME.” 

“Just fucking text me for once, you bastard,” Merle mutters under his breath, but to tell the truth, he’s grateful for the message. It gives him something other than the gigantic weight of the responsibility he now shoulders to focus on. 

Oh Pan damn it, why didn’t he just convince him? Merle doesn’t like lying. It gives him a headache. He should’ve just pressed on,  _ made  _ him understand what he had been- Hell, what he could end up being  _ again.  _

This John isn’t the John he knew when he first met him- the businessman in the sharp suit, part of the writhing world he’d made himself comfortable in, totally in control of his own creation and determined to make sure everyone else knew about it. He isn’t the John he grieved either, who fell apart in Merle’s arms and tried to help him save the world from himself. This John is one Merle hasn’t yet had the chance to meet- the John that was on the precipice to discovering destruction, the John that looked about the world with scorn hot and bright in his eyes. This is the John Merle is most afraid of, and it’s the one he’s wrought unto the world of Faerun. 

Merle slumps down against the wall, making a fist in his shirt, heart pounding in his throat. “Oh, shit.” 

He has his work cut out for him.

***

John observes the room he woke up in, turning in a circle. This is his room now, Merle has told him. Apparently it’s usually reserved for if his ex- that’s another thing, Merle is  _ divorced _ \- stays around, but she never does; thus it is John’s. It’s nice but it doesn’t hold much personal value for him. He reaches back into the small, cramped space in his brain that houses his memories. 

His old bedroom in the expensive house he rarely slept in was as impersonal but that was because he’d never bothered to decorate. John shakes his head at the memory. The whole thing had been hideous and obnoxiously avant-garde but his agent said it would look good if the press wanted to photograph it.

He reaches up to the bookshelves nailed clumsily to the wall; straight enough to keep the books from sliding off but slanted enough to tell John that Merle had put it there himself. He thumbs through the selection, noting that there are plenty of childrens fairytales and a few gardening manuals. There are some dusty old tomes labelled with names like “History of Faerun” that John figures he may as well peruse if he’s going to be staying here indefinitely. 

There’s a closet too, beautifully hand-crafted. John raises his eyebrows at it. He isn’t a carpenter but it looks like it has to have been commissioned. There are all kinds of intricate floral patterns winding from the top, around the sides and down to the feet. He crouches down, squinting at the joints at the base. There’s a miniscule “M.B.” carved there. Maybe Merle had inherited it from someone in his family? The whole thing smells fragrant. Some flower John can’t put his finger on- they’re all the same to him. 

He rises to his feet, wincing at the pain in his joints. He’d pin it on middle-age, if he hadn’t just woke up an amnesiac. John dusts off his front, glancing down and grimacing at how clownish he looks in the pyjamas he was given. A portion of his abdomen is exposed and the pants drift uselessly above his knees. He’s a far cry from who he last remembers being. He rubs a hand over his chin. He’ll have to shave soon. John sits on the bed, taking the recorder in his hand and considering it for a moment, before pressing the little red button on it. 

“I suppose I feel a little foolish talking to myself in an empty room but I don’t know where else to start.” John clears his throat, already wishing he’d gotten himself a glass of water. He’s been so thirsty since he woke up. “So here we are. My name is John Hadar- this I’m sure of. What I’m not sure of is how I ended up here, or who exactly Merle Highchurch is. He  _ could _ be planning to murder me and feed me to his plants but somehow I don’t think so. Supposedly  _ I’m _ the one that had an inclination towards the murderous.” 

John makes as to laugh, but somehow he finds himself without the ability to do so. Instead he coughs again. The itch isn’t as bad as before but it irritates him. He just wants to be rid of it. “Then again, who am I to argue?” he continues, voice scratchier than before. “I have no defenses for myself. There is a part of myself that worries about all of this, of course, it’s certainly a diversion from the plans of my previous life. But what am I meant to do? Cower in this room until I die, wishing myself back wherever I was? I think this could all be a learning experience- it would be a waste not to make the most of it.” 

And so.” John stretches out a hand, examining the near transparency of his skin; the way he can see the delicate links of his veins running through his wrist. “I postpone my life as Mr. Hadar, beloved public icon and I greet John, a nobody in a strange land.” 

He smiles to himself, and wonders how this could all turn out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if any of there are any mistakes in this i just rlly wanted to publish something. i'm still kind of working out what i'm actually doing with this fic so like. it might be awkward for a little while until we get into it. also i have like no idea how to do characterisation at all anymore so john is all weird now


	3. learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> john and merle get to know each other. again. adjustment is awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all!!!!! i am so sorry for abandoning this for like...3 weeks......  
> i had mock exam week which i had to study for for ages and after that i was just super tired. holiday season is pretty hectic but i'll try and get more chapters out faster! also its johnchurch month on tumblr so. i need to post smth. next chapter will probs be candlenights oriented. also as always characterization is weird cus circumstances are so weird and also idk what im doing??? really im still figuring out the plot. thank u for reading this even tho its ???? apologies for likely egregious inconsistencies/ typos/ grammar errors i am so tired.

“He doesn’t remember  _ anything _ ?”

“Nah, it’s more like the memories stop at the point just before the transition from shitty, egotistical human businessman to shitty, egotistical entity in a suit.”

“Ah. So is he, y’know…” She switches to a whisper. “...evil?” 

“He can’t hear you over the phone. He’s in his fifties, his hearing is as shot as mine. And, uh, no? I don’t think so? Like I said, I think he’s just regular old shitty. Really fuckin’ condescending. But not, like, planning to absorb everyone into his depression...void…”

Lup hums thoughtfully over the phone. “He’s not evil, Jean-Bean!” she calls behind her. “Barry says that’s great. Y’know what? I think that’s great that he isn’t evil too. Probably not evil. Let’s just say it’s evil-in-pending. Majoring in asshole, minoring in evil but considering dropping it because it’s too much of a workload.” 

“Uh, yup! All of those things. It actually kind of  _ sucks _ .” 

Lup pauses. “Sorry, I got carried away man. I feel kinda bad- when we were trying to get him back, we knew things might go a little pear-shaped.”

Merle shakes his head, smiling a little. “Don’t worry about it. It’s rough but that’s life, huh? Thanks again, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says dismissively, but Merle knows she’s hiding a smile behind the receiver of her stone. “Hey, you two should come over for dinner some time, when you’ve got John all trained up as a well-mannered boy. Barry makes a  _ mean _ casserole.”

“Didn’t you ban him from the kitchen when he tried to bake a loaf of bread in the microwave and added the entire packet of yeast?”

“I didn’t say the casserole was  _ good,  _ Merle, I said it was mean.” Merle finally allows himself to laugh, verging dangerously close to hysteria before catching himself. “Hey, take care old guy.”

“I will, I will. Talk to you soon, Lup.” He hangs up. 

Merle isn’t kidding about the “John is kind of a jerk now” part. He has that same smug aura that he used to have when they’d first met, all cool and smooth as silver, but without the threat of imminent death. He’d assumed, in the aftermath of finding John had no memory of him, that maybe he’d be easier to get through to than Hunger John. He still had all of his humanity; he hadn’t killed anyone yet. It turns out that John’s shitiness is just a facet of his personality, rather than some side effect of the Hunger. The past week has been a rude awakening. 

He’d had to find John some clothes- asking for measurements had been an awkward topic to broach-which had been made infinitely more difficult because the human specified that he would only put on formal wear. John definitely wasn’t ready to go out into the world accompanied, let alone by himself, and so Merle had been laboured with hours of looking at the same white button downs, slacks and miserable grey suits. 

Merle didn’t know the first thing about suits- he’d had to ask Kravitz where to buy them. It was just that nobody ever expected him to wear them, being the kind of guy he was. If he had official business to attend, say a wedding or a charity event, he’d just pick out a clean shirt that didn’t have a crude slogan on it and hope for the best. 

“Polyester?” John had said incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Merle. He’d held the jacket out in front of him, appraising it. The dwarf’s face fell at his frown. 

“I, uh, dunno what that is. But look! It’s a suit! And it’s black and plain and boring, just the way you like it.”

“Polyester is a...nevermind.” John had tutted under his breath, tucking the clothing under his arm. “Well, it’ll have to do.” 

The outfit ended up being a little awkward on him- the pants exposed an inch of ankle and the sleeves of the jacket retreated too far down his forearms. John wears it all around the house, even if he’s just sat in an armchair reading or eating breakfast. Merle has barely seen him in anything else- the one thing that hasn’t changed. 

He commands Merle’s cooking. “ _ Highchurch, _ ” he says, often and reprimanding, stalking up behind him in the kitchen. But he never says “Merle”, and that itches at the dwarf like a skin infection but he tries not to let it show. He inhales and lets John take hold of the spatula. 

“You’ve put the heat up  _ much  _ too high- you’re taking all the moisture out of the food and rendering it virtually...well, not inedible, but…” John wrinkles his nose and looks down at Merle, flipping the pan with an expert twist of his wrist. “You could be doing better.”

“John, they’re just eggs. And  _ Mavis  _ likes my cooking.”

“Mavis is your daughter. She’s predisposed to complimenting you.” John takes the pan off of the heat and serves the eggs.

Merle glares up at him, arms crossed. “Oh, so you’re saying she’s just protecting my feelings?”

John averts his gaze, a sly smile at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps. It’s beside the point, Highchurch. Since I’m being held a prisoner here-” 

“ _ John-” _

John holds up a hand, “Since I’m being held a prisoner here, I have to eat your food and I figured I could lend a hand in that. I did take some culinary classes in my youth.” He hands Merle a plate. “Go on and try it.”

Merle found it a lot easier to resist the thrall of John’s speech when he was talking about mass destruction on a universal scale. Now that he’s skating figure-of-eights around Merle about  _ eggs  _ it’s more difficult to remember who he is. Was. Whatever. He takes a bite of the eggs. They’re good. Very good.

“Ok, you got me. These are  _ egg- _ cellent.” John usually raises his eyebrows at Merle’s quips but he smiles at this one, sort of self-satisfied. Even so, Merle feels a wash of relief. 

That’s what annoys Merle most of all- that despite everything, it’s still  _ John.  _ He’s so self-absorbed, so narcissistic- he was before anyways, but he at least seemed to have some sort of self-awareness- and yet Merle sees him in the way he studies his books, the smoothness of his word choice even when admonishing, the shine in his eyes when he’s passionate about something. He notices it most when John is observing something, his hands locking into place under his chin like a bridge, like they’re always meant to be there, eyes quick and smart. 

But he also finds more of John, parts of John he never knew. For example Merle learns that, among cooking, John also likes art. Merle thought the minimalist artists would be more his style, but he instead he prefers the big colourful canvases, full and wild and abstract. He talks to Merle about the history of painters back from his home world in small talk (which he is as good at as Merle remembers.) Merle doesn’t understand much of it but he enjoys hearing John so enthused, as opposed to snide. 

Merle finds him looking out of one of the front windows, at the patterns the dwarf had designed in the garden’s plants. It’s sparse with how bitter the cold is now, but some of the greenery is still around. John hasn’t been in the outside world yet, in the week and a half since his arrival. Not because Merle locked him up or anything, he just hadn’t asked. Frankly Merle’s thankful for it. He isn’t sure how he’d manage this new John; how he’d damage control a force of pure arrogance like that. Not to mention the whole “everyone in the world wants to tear him apart” thing. 

“You ok there John?” he asks, trailing behind him. He’s tried not to hang on John’s shoulder excessively but it’s difficult. He’s more used to an empty home (aside from Pan, and after all, it’s  _ Pan _ who trails Merle _. _ )

John’s gaze flicks from the outside to him. “I’m fine. Just interested. You’re pretty serious about this gardening thing, aren’t you?”

Merle laughs. “I mean,  _ yeah.  _ I don’t keep all these plants around just by dumb luck. You gotta have experience for that kinda shit- and a natural knack definitely helps. ‘Cause my expertise certainly ain’t coming from my brains.”

“I didn’t expect something like this from you. It looks nice.”

The dwarf steps closer, next to him. John doesn’t move away so he stays where he is. “Well, when the weather’s warmer and things are coming into bloom again, you could help me with it.”

“Perhaps I will. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.” John smiles at him. There’s no bite to follow it. It’s just a nice smile. Merle smiles back. 

Maybe this won’t be so bad. 

***

John continues to record over the next two weeks. 

“Merle Highchurch is wrong about a few things. One: My hearing is not shot. Not at all. In fact, it’s unusually good for someone of my age. This aids in my second point. I like to listen in on Highchurch’s conversations. What? It’s not like I have anything  _ else _ to do. 

“Sure, I can’t hear whoever is on the other end of the stone, but I can fill in the blanks well enough. I used to talk for a living, after all. I’m curious about this Lup character. She seems to have a marked interest in me- a lot of information too. I hope to meet her soon. 

“Three: I’m not a  _ jerk _ . I’m simply...blunt. Honest. Hungry for truth. Am I  _ really _ the monster Highchurch makes me out to be? Maybe a little abrasive, yes, but it’s in order to toughen him up. He treats me as if I’m a  _ child,  _ and however is a dwarf like Highchurch supposed to survive in the cruelty of the unforgiving universe? I have to restrain the urge to confront him over it- but then he’d would know about my eavesdropping. Curses, or something.

“Four: suits are excellent. They’re comfortable (once you break them in) and easy to wear (once you get used to all the buttons and cuffs.) And, as far as I’m convinced, they’re the only things that look right on me.” 

He tells Merle this last part as the dwarf tries to persuade him into wearing “jeans.”

“No,” John says curtly, barely paying attention to Merle and instead focusing on the cucumber he’s slicing up. 

“But you’re upstaging me! In my  _ own home.  _ It’s embarrassing.” 

John smiles as he cuts a tomato clean in half. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled up but nevertheless he checks for stains. “It’s what I do best.”

Merle makes a muted noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “You’re unbearable sometimes, y’know that?”

“That’s what I do second best.” 

John has been learning a lot about Merle, because you do learn a lot about a person when you have every hour of the day to inspect their home. He combs through Merle’s cupboards and refrigerators, inspects his boxes of tea, learns the name of each plant on the kitchen windowsills. He devours every book Merle owns- he even finds some distinctly plant-based erotica at the back of a closet when the dwarf is out grocery shopping. John makes a note to bring that up later- or maybe it’s best to...leave it be. 

He learns what he can about Mavis and Mookie from pictures and decorations in spare bedrooms. John can’t quite believe that Merle managed to father two children, let alone continue to rear them. He seems like kind of a mess, from what John has seen so far. 

It’s been only two weeks, but there’s already a vaguely comforting sense of routine to each day. John gets up, gets dressed, reads and talks to Merle. Sometimes the dwarf goes out to do things and then John has his treasure hunts. He almost prefers it when they’re conversing, though, and Merle is giving him information directly. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but he’s a good conversationalist. Hell, John could see him being in a similar position to what he himself had been.

John gets the feeling that Merle holds some information back. Maybe it’s the memory loss part- not wanting to submerge him in everything too quickly. He tried to do that right after John woke up, and he’d entirely denied it. Him? A world-eating eldritch horror? Well, maybe now that John thought about it. He’d always had a somewhat machiavellian air to him. He’d thought it was charming. Nevertheless, John figured he could always undo the puzzle of what had happened himself- there has to be something hiding around in Merle’s place that will give him evidence. It is, dare he say it, exciting. 

Despite the odd tension between the two, John finds Merle endearing. He’s cheerful in the face of a challenge. He’s ready to give John shit if he doesn’t like what the human’s saying. There’s a stack of fanmail in his letterbox every morning that Merle rifles through during breakfast, taking the time to reply to most of them even if it’s just a quick note. 

“Mostly kids,” Merle tells John one morning, letter-opener in hand. “I figure it would be real shitty to leave them hanging. I get sick of replying sometimes, but then I think ‘what if it was Mookie?’ and the guilt gets me through it.”

John stirs a mug of coffee idly, looking up from his book (about the history of architecture in Neverwinter.) “Well, when you pray to a God, they don’t always answer. Doesn’t giving them that gratification just set them up for disappointment later in life?” 

“What? Well, I mean, I guess you have a point but…” Merle sighs. “Man, you were just like this before. Ok, so, I always think of it, like, sure, there’s a bunch of shitty people in the world, and life is always bound to kick you while you’re down but that doesn’t mean that it has to be devoid of any joy. Maybe me writing back to them will inspire them to...shit, I dunno, go to college and work hard, or make them care about who they’re talking to. It’s only somethin’ small, but at least it’s  _ somethin’. _ ”

“Hm.” John sips his drink. “I’m guessing we’ve had this conversation before.”

Merle pauses in his writing. “Yeah. But, um. More incineration.

Incineration? “Did I set you on  _ fire,  _ Highchurch? Oh, that’s a little callous. Even for me!

The dwarf chuckles, tension releasing from his shoulders. “Hey, I’ll say. I got used to dying though, so whatever.”

John had initially assumed that Merle was joking about them being mortal enemies, but over the two weeks they’d spent together that preconception had eroded. He was a guy that liked to joke and fool around, but he didn’t tend to lie- not about serious things. John thought that, maybe, it should have troubled him but he found himself fascinated as to where all of this was going. Occasionally John would catch Merle looking at him from over his shoulder, looking vaguely troubled. When their eyes met he would smile and continue with whatever he was doing. Just like now. 

“It’s, uh, Candlenights soon,” Merle says, breaking the uncomfortable lull in conversation. “I know it isn’t exactly your holiday, but I’d feel weird leaving you on your own for an occasion like that, since it’s about...family and everything.”

“We had similar celebrations on my plane,” John says. “And I’ve gotten familiar with Candlenights customs from my readings. I didn’t really participate, back home. Busy with work and everything.” He shrugged. “I didn’t like the consumerism associated, either. Something about all of it felt so...saccharine.” 

“Yeah, I get that. But I think this could be fun! Y’know, a good chance for you to meet everyone. My kids and friends will be coming over. Uh, maybe since you like cooking so much, you could even help out with that?”

John smiles. “I could certainly try, Highchurch.”

Merle smiles plenty, but he really smiles now, so much so that his glasses lift on his face. John feels a little pang in his chest at the sight of it. He doesn’t know where it comes from and it puts him off for a moment. He clears his throat, as if that will get rid of it.

“A word of, uh, warning.” Merle’s smile drops and he takes his glasses off to rub the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “They’re gonna be more than a little apprehensive about this, some more than others. I mean, it’s not a surprise that you’re back to them, some of ‘em even helped, and they’ve been cool over the phone, but I really don't know how they’ll be in person. People are weird like that. So, even if it’s like you’re meeting everyone for the first time, they have a lot of baggage attached to you.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” John promises. And he really tries to mean it. 

***

John hasn’t dreamt since waking up, but this night he does. 

He’s somewhere dark. It’s darker than closed eyes or night time. It’s a darkness that feels like it could swallow everything forever, like before and at the end of creation. He tries to speak, but he can’t. At first, he thinks there’s nothing but silence- until he notices the soft tendrils of whispering in his ears. 

It’s inescapable. He tries to move, but whatever he’s floating in is like cement. He begins to hyperventilate, chest tight. The whispers grow louder in his ears, becoming more and more distinct. Around him the darkness is pierced through by a glow, in colours he didn’t even know existed. They pulse like the ocean’s waves, drawing further away from him and then encroaching rapidly.

John finally understands that the whispers are forming a question, each voice uniting distinctly: “ _ Hungry. Hungry. Hungry? Aren’t you? Don’t you want more than this, John?”  _

He wakes up. His breathing is light and fast, and he’s sweating even though the air around him is cool. John stares at the ceiling for- he doesn’t know how long- until the morning light filters in through a gap in the curtains and he realises he is absolutely ravenous.


	4. evaluate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> candlenights approaches. merle catches a cold. john goes shopping.

The machinery inside of the recorder whirrs. “My dreams have been odd lately. I’d say they were foreshadowing something, but then I’d have to be aware of whatever resides on the horizon- and quite frankly, it’s too murky to define. So it will have to stay where it is for now. I have cooking to do.” 

It is cold and dark out now. Dusk settles ever-earlier. John likes it. The darkness reminds him of when he was sleeping before- that feels a long way away now, even if it’s only been a month. And Merle spends more time at the house, now that his Extreme Teen Adventures have been put on hold until spring rolls around again. 

He’s not as fond of the cold as John is. He trails around in slippers and a hand-knitted cardigan. He complains, continuously, of the flu he can feel coming on. But Merle is busy, as always- planning for events he has to go to, shuffling his schedule relentlessly. He comes back from meet-ups and book signings looking frazzled and bleary-eyed. When he starts sneezing, John decides to do something about it. 

“You need to take a break,” he says, curtly, one evening. 

“That’d be nice, but I can’t,” Merle replies. He’s practically falling asleep at the table, glasses pushed up onto his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice is thick with illness and exhaustion and, quite frankly, it’s beginning to get on John’s nerves.

“Well, why not?” John says. “You don’t  _ owe  _ them your presence. Cancel your appointments. Just for a day or so, until you can stand up without practically collapse.” He pauses; changes tactics. “Your admirers wouldn’t want to see you so ill. They care about you, don’t they?” 

Merle sighs, looking torn. He appears to yield. “I- ok. Ok, you win. But- but only for a day, alright? And I still gotta manage stuff over the stone, and-” 

“Highchurch. Go to bed.” 

“Ok.” 

John brings some reheated soup from dinner the night before and a glass of water to Merle’s room. Then he spends the rest of the evening drifting around the house, thinking about food and meeting Merle’s friends and family. He’s been breezing about for days now, untethered. It’s easy not to think about the outside world- all of his brain space has been occupied by either Merle, or trying to reclaim parts of his past that go flitting in and out of his mental periphery. 

But now that the revered “Candlenights” draws closer, John has become troubled. That’s all it is- trouble. A little, nagging voice (usually sounding  _ suspiciously  _ like Merle) reminds him of the potential danger of meeting Merle’s assorted friends and relatives- of what that could mean. That’s just it though- it’s the  _ potential,  _ never the real thing. And he wants the real thing. He wants the full picture. John does not like being unprepared, but for once, he doesn’t have a say in it. 

As much as John likes to mull over these kinds of things, he doesn’t have the chance to. Instead, he’s busy taking care of Merle. The dwarf doesn’t stay in bed for a day. He stays in bed for a week. Merle gets a mild fever- nothing that rest and soup won’t fix- but it knocks all of the energy out of him, and he spends most of the day drifting in and out of sleep. 

He sure isn’t happy about it. In the moments Merle is lucid and awake, he complains about his uselessness, about all the work that’s piling up- and John usually just raises his eyebrows at him and tells him that the more ungrateful he is to his immune system, the longer it will take for him to get better. 

Ironically, John sleeps less in the time Merle is sick. Maybe it’s something to do with the weirdness of his dreams recently, or the dreaded Candlenights, or maybe he’s actually worried about Merle’s health- but he finds himself staying up into the early hours, practicing different recipes and cleaning things that don’t need to be cleaned. 

On the fifth day, John hears a cry from Merle’s room, and he has to switch off the stove in a hurry. Merle is awake, shaking, head in his hands. John can’t make out his face in the darkness of the room, but he can hear him sobbing. 

“Merle?” he says quietly, from the doorway, not wanting to scare him. John thinks that Merle might have had a night terror. He remembers those, vaguely, from his childhood. Merle doesn’t reply, so he takes a step into the room. And then another. 

He’s looming over Merle, but the dwarf is still curled into himself, unresponsive. John hesitates, before cursing himself and reaching out to touch the other’s shoulder. When he does, Merle flinches and yelps, his attention snapping to John’s face. He is breathing raggedly, face wet with tears. John’s innards twist.

“No,” is the first word out of Merle’s mouth, gasped. “No, don’t, don’t touch me, you’re not  _ real-  _ you’re- you- you-...” He trails off, scanning John’s face, and some of the tension releases from his form. The reality of the situation appears to have clicked. 

“Merle, I am real. I’m John, I’m actually here, in the room with you.” John holds out his hand, next to Merle. Merle looks down at it and, tentatively, like a scared animal, takes it. His palm is clammy. John can feel the calluses of his fingertips. They stay there like that for a moment, silence roaring around them, until Merle’s breathing has evened out. 

“Shit,” Merle says shakily, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I get stress dreams sometimes and it fucks with me. This is mortifying.” 

John swallows. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, now that Merle isn’t holding one of them, so he just clasps them together. “Don’t apologise, it happens. I’d get them from time to time. Would you, ah, like some water?” 

Merle nods, so John leaves, and he’s so much more thankful for it than he thought he’d be. John realises he’s trembling a little himself, as he fills a cup at the kitchen sink. He sighs, catching sight of himself in the reflection of the window. His face, white and gaunt, floats like a spectre in the darkness beyond. He blinks at himself and frowns. There was...something, for a moment, there. John shakes his head. No. He’s tired, and his eyes are playing tricks on him. There’s nothing wrong with his face. It’s a fine face, even. 

It doesn’t take long for Merle to fall back asleep, after he’s taken a moment to calm down and rearrange his pillows. John puts away the vegetables he was preparing a little ruefully, wondering if he can make it into a salad the next day. He couldn’t get the glaze right, anyways. 

***

Who knew John could make soup? He’s damn good at making soup. In fact, this soup is probably the best Merle’s had in years. And there’s a comfort to it, too, something warm and rich and belonging to a fond memory. That’s the part that throws Merle off the most. He hadn’t expected something so...wholesome from John. But then, he is always full of surprises. 

It’s the soup, he reckons, that gets him up and out of bed within the next few days. Merle is so thankful to not be stewing in bed, being generally gross and useless. It’s almost a relief to return to his work. John rolls his eyes of course, seeing Merle back in his usual form. 

“You don’t waste a moment, do you?” he says, flicking through the newspaper. He always remarks on seeing Merle in it, usually admonishing whatever outfit he’s wearing in the particular article. 

“Nope! I’ll rest when I die. For now, I wanna make the most of life. Back to business as usual.” Merle stops stirring his tea. “But, uh, I wanted to say thank you. For taking care of me. That was really good of you, man.”

“Well, first of all, you’re welcome. I’d be a terrible guest if I didn’t do that. I’m a murderer, but I do have manners, you know? Secondly: don’t call me man.”

Merle laughs, voice still a little hoarse. He rubs his throat idly. “Noted, noted.” He taps the countertop. “Say, ah, about the other night…”

John clears his throat. “It’s fine, Highchurch, you don’t have to-”

“No, it’s just that, I mean...I try not to let it slip, but I guess I’m kinda messed up. I mean, you probably figured that already, but sometimes it gets bad, like, overwhelmingly bad. And it sucks you had to see that, but you handled it, like, pretty great.”

There is a moment of silence between them, John watching Merle take a nervous sip of his drink. He holds his face in one hand, as he’s prone to do, eyes all busy. “I would do it again, if you needed me to.” 

Merle blinks, hardly having expected John to reply. But he did, and he said that. Full to the fucking  _ brim  _ of surprises. Merle swallows. He laughs again, a little too loud. “Hey, did you know your hands are super cold?”

John resumes his upright posture, like Merle, just a little too fast. “Probably the years of existing in an apocalyptic void, hm?” 

“Yeah. That or, like, bad circulation.” 

The rhythm to their routine picks back up where it left off. Merle finds comfort in it, perversely enough. There are still all these little things that remind him of who, what, John is- that distant, calculating stare of his, his cynicality, the enrapturing cadence of his voice- but having him coast around Merle’s home like some kind of...house-husband...makes him feel more akin to a beloved piece of furniture than a monster. 

Merle makes a decision, finally. 

“John. How would you feel about going out?” 

John is not particularly inclined towards watching TV, but this is what he’s doing now, flipping channels. Merle is pretending to watch with him, instead focusing on the sheafs of paper on his lap. The novelty of seeing his friends (or himself) on-screen has long since worn off. John perks up when Merle speaks, glancing in his direction.

“You mean...go outside?” John says. “Well, goodness, Highchurch. I never thought I’d see the sun again!” 

Merle scoffs. “I never said you  _ couldn’t  _ leave! I’m, like, short as shit. If you want to go, you can. Just use those big ol’ lanky legs of yours and step over me.” 

“What, and risk being mauled by a mob of people who hate me to my core? No thank you, Highchurch.” John looks at Merle out of the corner of his eye and smirks a little. 

“Oh, you laugh now, but you won’t when it actually  _ happens _ !” Merle crosses his arms. “Look, even if people try to start shit, I’ll be there to keep it from getting out of hand. Besides, I figure you’re gonna need some supplies and new equipment for the dinner, you know? So it might be fun to go shopping.” 

“You forget: I don’t have any money.”

Merle rolls his eyes. “Pan, John. It’s Candlenights. I’ll be paying for it. Consider it your, uh, Candlenights gift.” 

This seems to catch John off guard, because he stops his incessant channel-flipping. “Oh,” he says. “Well. Thank you.”

Merle waves his hand. “Don’t sweat it.” He pauses. “Wanna, like, go right now?”

“Gods, yes. I’m so sick of this TV.”

So they do. 

“Merle, this isn’t going to work,” John whispers. He is clutching the hood of one of Magnus’ old coats around the lower half of his face, so only his eyes are visible. From this feature alone, Merle can deduce that John is pretty pissed. And scared. 

They’re standing at the edge of the square, where the crowds aren’t so bad. Merle has donned a massive pair of sunglasses and has thrown a scarf he found around his neck (which he thinks might have once been Taako’s.) Between the two of them, they’re wearing enough fabric to clothe an elephant- but this was the only disguise Merle could come up with on short notice.

John is totally swamped by his coat. He’s about as tall as Magnus, but all skinny, so he practically drowns in it. It would be kind of funny, or even cute, if Merle didn’t feel so nervous. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it will,” Merle says, throwing a smile John’s way. “If we don’t do it now, then we never will, right?” 

John stalks behind him, head angled to the pavement as they walk. To Merle’s surprise, and relief, no one takes much notice of them. Everyone’s too busy to be looking out for Merle, and he’s obscured himself successfully enough. “Told ya it would work,” he whispers to John, who raises his eyebrows at him. 

They find the shop Merle was looking for. It’s big and the products are expensive and he hopes that John will be suitably impressed. It even has that fancy floor lighting. When they enter the doorway, the human drinks in all the gloss and spotlights and he perks up.

“This place is actually...nice.” 

“See? I can appreciate, uh, expensive stuff.” 

John hums. “Who recommended this place to you?” 

Merle sighs as they enter the store. “It was Taako.” 

It is surprisingly satisfying to see John enjoying himself. The store is bustling so no one pays them any attention, and Merle is glad to shed the weight of celebrity for at least a moment. There’s an idle swing to John’s arm as he wields a basket. Merle smiles to himself. 

John bumps into someone beside him and the basket is knocked from his hand. The person turns, apologetic, as John kneels to pick it up. Merle freezes as the hood of the coat pushes back over his head, face exposed. 

“Oh, jeez, I’m really sorry about that! I’m such a klutz sometimes, I swear…” The stranger’s eyes light on John’s face, and they blink. Then frown. “Do I, um, know you from somewhere?”

“Shit,” Merle breathes. 

They blink again, and their face contorts. “No,” the person says, sort of disbelievingly, and their voice tremors. “No, you’re...you couldn’t be. You died ages ago, when the  _ Hunger  _ was defeated.” Each word punches a hole in the former peace of the atmosphere.

Like bowling pins falling over, the crowds in the immediate surroundings catch the word “Hunger” and they fall silent. It’s kind of amazing, actually, such a clear example of their shared experience. Well, it would be if Merle couldn’t feel the tension pulled taut across the room like clingfilm. He can hardly breathe for it. 

A murmur begins to bubble up, soft and curious at first,  _ what did they say? is that really the hunger? it couldn’t be the hunger, he died! wait no, look at his face, wouldn’t you recognise it anywhere? that’s john. that’s the hunger.  _

_ what the fuck is he doing here?  _

Merle can tell that a bubble can easily become a boil, and that boil can easily overflow the measly little pot it’s contained in. Already an edge of anger, of fear, tinges the hubbub, the crowd pushing and shoving to get a good glimpse of John, who is frozen in place. 

Pan damnit. This is not good. Not good at all. Merle takes a deep breath and uses all of his central mass to wedge himself between the legs of a human and elf, and into the little ring of reprieve that surrounds John’s vicinity. He puts a hand on the human’s shoulder and the people around him balk. 

“John?” he say quietly. “I think we should get out of here right about now.” 

The human turns to him and a gasp catches in Merle’s throat because, Pan, John is absolutely ashen, almost  _ grey _ , and his eyes are wide with fear. And it reminds Merle so, so much of their last real parley before he was absorbed into the Hunger. He thinks maybe it would be funny to see John knocked down a peg, but it isn’t. 

“Is that  _ Merle Highchurch? _ ”

“Well this can’t get any weirder.” 

Busted. 

John stumbles upwards, finally finding his big, dumb, lanky legs, and he grabs Merle’s shoulder for support. “I’d be inclined to agree,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. 

Merle takes the first step and the crowd parts, bewildered expressions all around. “Well, folks, wish we could stick around but uh...hero of the universe stuff to do, places to see, Gods to pray to…” He laughs nervously. “Uh, this will all be explained later. Just, you know, don’t freak out.” And then he makes like a shot for the doorway. 

John follows suite, forgetting his basket in the store, easily overtaking Merle. Oh, running does not suit him. It’s like watching a daddy long legs take part in a relay race. They make it to the outskirts of the square, where the news hasn’t spread yet, and they duck into an alley to catch their breath. 

“Shit,” is all Merle can manage between drawing in lungfuls of air. 

“Yes. Shit.” John rests himself on the wall, sliding down it to sit on the ground. He presses his head against his knees, arms limp at his sides. 

“This is gonna spread on fantasy-Twitter,” Merle mutters, already overcome with concern again. “Sorry. You were right. This was a pretty piss-poor plan, but hindsight is twenty-twenty I guess.” He sighs. 

John lifts his head from his knees, and Merle is surprised to see that he is smiling. In fact, he is laughing. “You’re  _ really _ something, Highchurch.”

“What, like...something good, or…?”

“I don’t think I’ve decided yet.” John pauses. “But I’m enjoying myself either way.” 

***

They get home, managing to avoid any altercations, and John is exhausted when they do. He reheats some pasta he made the day before and he and Merle eat together on the couch. Evidently the dwarf is a little queasy from the earlier debacle because he can’t finish a bowl, but John surprises himself with how hungry he is. All that running, probably. 

When they go to bed, John lies awake. He stares at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach. He can’t stop thinking about the way those people looked at him. John has experienced fame before, of course, but people usually looked at him in admiration. Not like that, ever. Never so cold, never so repulsed, never so...afraid. 

It picks at his brain. He thinks maybe- maybe he  _ has  _ seen those eyes before. Looking at him like he is a monster. But he almost doesn’t want to remember. That will make it real. John realises his mouth is dry and gets up to get some water. 

He doesn’t like the bathroom much. It’s pretty small, nice and clean, but it forces John to be alone with his reflection. Pale, gaunt. Lost. Gods, is that really him? He takes a long drink of water, regarding himself almost warily. 

There is another moment- and again, John puts this down to his tiredness, or residual terror from earlier in the day- but there is a moment, just a second in which he thinks he sees...a fissure in his appearance. It is small and dark and it runs the length of his temple, and when he goes to look at it closer in the mirror, it’s gone. 

He shakes his head. Sometimes, he can be so foolish. It’s Merle rubbing off on him, he thinks.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hey guys! sorry for not updating in....months.........rn im studying for gcses which are very important exams but ive basically been writing this as stress relief so like. yay!!! an update!!! hopefully the wait for the next one wont be so bad. also, like, the fact that im writing the candlenights chapters when its almost summer sure is something huh

**Author's Note:**

> my taz tumblr is @aubrey--little ! feel free to come and talk to me about stuff or send writing requests.


End file.
